The Little Wren

“Hope is that thing with feathers!”

Too close to winter’s end for my comfort
But not for his, the busy wren began
His work -- the tiny house my neighbor 
Had left for him with a view of the river.
With great industry, confidence and hope 
He worked from sun’s first light until the night.
Devoting day to work, to twilight he gave song
Of hope and joy to mommy, soon to answer full.
By his companion too work was still needed
For the fledge to come, the hope
Begun in song answered in sweeter sound
Of young life, the promise of life and joy.
I listened to the tiny calls inside 
While watching as both sped in and out, about
The work that really tires one,
Work begun before time itself was born,
Thinking mine, the while, were these little ones.

There came a morning though some few weeks on
When no soft sound of tiny life was heard
Nor did I see the busy two about their work,
Observing with increasing wonder,
What might have caused such monkish silence there!
Smiling, but still, unsure that all was well.

(How sweet the time before they roam away!)

Too soon learned. The nest had been destroyed
And all but one chick there lay dead below, 
The survivor living just one day longer dying
Inside the now empty, once song filled, nest
That sad place, where bright song spread, too quiet now,
In silence deep to mourn, to mourn the death now dealt!

And so I heard and hearing recalled
When, long ago, we had named “Susan”
In hearts and hopes we would someday hold,
Whom in both our hearts we already loved.
But, she never did come forth to us 
Though in our one heart was as true 
There as in her mother’s womb
Was always!  Though three short months allowed 
Which one night of tears removed, memory
And love remained, which never die at all
Against one night of pain and tears 
Love wins.

Susan, here so little time, was gone. 
I know much more.  I know time is no master
Before it seems even yet, to have come,
So long has love lived. Muse longer it will
Beyond, beyond all boundaries love is
A gift hidden is a gift more precious,
A growing joy the longer is the wait.
I also know that love is never lost,
Is rooted deeply, deeply, strongly, fast
To soils and souls.  And love always grows.

Sometimes I think I’ll not see but will be shown
Who waits for me when finally I come home --
A time I ever more eagerly anticipate.
There is no one I know who has never 
Been; such a one can never be. Never will!

But even more fiercely, deeply, I know
What God in Heaven creates still lives on,
Good in every sense.  By love is it made
And, so, for love, to love, is it purposed.
As all conceived, so are all and all born
And all born good will never not be!
Whom Love makes, where Love lives, 
Have life 
Everlasting.

POEMSCRIPT:

I hear the little Wren
Now sing his still sweet song.
And, so I do sing my own,
No end to life Long.